Dominion Ashes of a Fallen Empire [GA Dominion of The Ghost Nebula]

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

"Interesting contrast, Senators."

His tone was calm. Not mocking, not gloating—just watching the winds shift.

"One of you offers redemption. The other offers a gentler hand in regulation. Both paths sound very diplomatic. I just wonder which one this Alliance actually walks."

The delegation representing Ord Mantell found themselves in the crossfire of debate from the Galactic Senate and the Hutt. Perhaps the Hutt should turn the focus to the Alliance's delegation. A heavy handed approach would drive the Mantellian officials away; his history and implications of the Hutt's presence was the only reason the Kajidii was permitting in this discussion.
Whottoomuzz paused, resting a hand on the carved rim of his armor.

"Senator Dawson would see me reformed, scrubbed down, licensed and blessed. Senator du Couteau provides precedent for managed sanctuary on Denon."

He looked toward Damian’s side of the chamber, not with deference, but with measured interest.

"That is where the real question lies, isn't it? Not with me, with you all. The proposed Sanctuary is brought to the table by Ord Mantell, I am simply a party interested in the outcome."

His golden eyes slid across the room now—Senators unspoken, aides watching.

"You can outlaw sanctuary. You can strike deals. You can draw lines. But the shape of the Alliance will not be carved by me—it will be carved by how you decide to treat existing wounds festering jn the worlds you claim. The rot you already know is here."

His words were blunt, but not cruel.

"I am not the one to convince, nor am I the one to decide – and I presume neither of you are in a position to speak for the entirety of the Alliance on this proposal?"

He leaned back, massive arm outstretched to the Mantellian delegation as well as GA representatives, as if to say: Now let’s see what your consensus is.

Damian du Couteau | Mykel Dawson | Thexann Pehnataur | @Open

 

[Aadihr Lidos]

WALK WITHOUT LIGHT

Objective 1
Outfit: Clothes, Earring, Bangle
Weapons: Walking stick / Lightsaber Pike

The light ended long ago.

But Aadihr did not need it.

The tunnels twisted, buckled, coiled around themselves like the fossilized throat of a dead god—and still he walked without pause. His blindfold was soaked with dust. The air vibrated with trapped heat and iron tension. careful filter of the force kept the dust from entering his nostrils. To him beneath the blindfold, the stone was translucent. The very walls shimmered with veins of life malice. Each ripple in the Force told a story.

Rebels bleeding behind crates.
Snipers poised above acid vents.
Imperials—thinning, retreating—consolidating like a wound trying to scab over.

He followed the blood-bright trails of motion, the afterimages of steps taken and fear spent. Every soldier’s presence left an echo—some flickering like candles, some howling like dying stars. He didn’t need maps. The Force had already drawn one. Behind him, a new ripple. Four arms. Fierce empathy. Tyron Khan

The Besalisk was close. Closer than expected. He brought an extra breath mask—practical, thoughtful, loyal. He would fight well when the storm broke. He already was.

Aadihr didn’t slow. Just shifted his wrist to the rebreather, catching it without looking.

“Thank you.”
He replied simply.

He kept walking. Into shadow.

Far above, Stormpiercer Command flickered through static.

"Rebel morale is dropping. Requesting tempo increase."

He heard them. He heard all of them. Ysennia’s frustration. Vulpesen’s precision. Tyron’s hope. He did not rush.

To go faster is to trip the wrong wire. To strike harder is to bring the ceiling down. Inevitable is the junction where their malice ends... and pain begins.

He pressed a palm to the wall. The camouflage matrix dispersed.

A narrow fissure opened sideways—no more than shoulder-width, laced with sensor wire. Aadihr exhaled once and slipped in sideways, robes folding like wind into stone.

A heartbeat later: the passage widened. Ahead, through three turns of earth and hidden doors, he saw them. The deepest holdout. Imperial remnant, heavy-breathing. Scans wouldn’t catch them here.

But Aadihr could see their panic like fire on water. He stepped lightly. No sound. No blade.

One soldier looked over his shoulder and froze.

"The war has ended," Aadihr said quietly, staff in hand. Emerging from darkness, Tyron Khan not far behind. "As is your Empire's grip on this mine."

A bolt fired, seemingly ricocheting into a wall without cause. Then he moved.

Tyron Khan | Ysennia Lee | Vulpesen | @Open​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

"I surrender."

"Excellent."

There was just enough skepticism for her tone to sound, Ashla forbid, politely sarcastic. Her gaze was quick to sweep over the droid's metallic body and clock both the weaponry and lack of raised hands.

Cora almost sighed. She found droids frustrating to deal with as opposition, always possessing some sort of hidden component to shock, stab, or concuss even when they were bound. Perhaps she'd feel differently if she were a technopath.

With neither speech nor pomp, the Jedi reached for her utility belt. She retrieved an emp grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it Antipater's way.

"Catch."

 

[Thexann Pehnataur]

Objective Two: Ord Mantell, New Beacon of Diplomacy, or Hive of Scum and Villainy? (Senators)

Well this is ridiculous.

Nothing more entertaining than a houseguest who makes demands on the grocery run. Thexann was a man of principle, but he was also a realist. Moreso than his brother Arcann is anyway. The problem is that this can often be confused for pragmatism, or worse naivete. So as he stood there, taking it all in, all Thexann could think about was cake. Yes, they did not want empty promises, and were more than skeptical, sure, but the delegation was looking for their cake and eating it too.

Give and take… Letting the words hang in the air for a few moments, he let all eyes befall him.

While no one here has the outright authority to say “yes” or “no”, I believe that arrangements can be made. However they will need to come at a price. If you want sanctuary, accommodations like no[/B major crime continuing on the planet. While we all realize that you cannot control every aspect of life without it being a police state, which no one wants, you must realize that the Alliance cannot tolerate a proverbial “Den of Thieves”. What you would do outside of Alliance space is your business, but none of it “comes home with you”.

Now, when I say “you”, I of course speak in generalities, not accusations. If you are not willing to look at the idea, I suggest the notion of those seeking sanctuary to become “undercover informants”. They do what they are going to do, to an extent, but keep their ear to the ground and if there is information we need judicially, it’s brought to law enforcement.

He held out his own hands and shrugged. Thexann had not thought the idea through yet, so there would need to be more in place, but it was a start. If they wanted to take, they needed to give.



​

​

 

[Antipater]

CADEMIMU V - CONTROL BUNKER
WAR CHASSIS​

The Jedi went for something on her belt. It didn't matter what it was - Antipater took his own opportunity to grab the rifle and fire exactly one shot from the hip - aimed at the Jedi's center of mass.

A wave of concussive force tore through the air towards her, traveling across a few control consoles and shattering the displays. It did nothing to stop the EMP grenade from arriving at his feet. He expected it to be some rudimentary Jedi-issue thermal detonator (something which complied with Senate regulations would be harmless to this form), so he began to generate an appropriate taunt.

And then the grenade went off.

Arcs of bright-blue ionic energy traveled up the war droid's form, prompting uncontrollable shuddering and complete servomotor failure. He was locked in place.

The taunt played anyway: "KrrrrrrfffZZZzZZrrrrrngooOOnnNNNrrRRRrrrr." Nothing but unintelligible, distorted static noise.

The excess energy would take several moments to vent. Antipater remained helpless in the interim.

Corazona von Ascania​

 

[Mykel Dawson]

Objective 2:

Jedi Robes

Senator Damian du Couteau spoke and more or less echoed what Mykel had said, though packaged in the syrupy words of politician. That was fine, actually. He would pivot of off that - the good ole' good cop bad cop routine.

The only thing he disliked was mention of Denon, creating a fresh reminder that it was no longer part of the GA and giving some credence to Chantin's point about reliability. As the Jedi saw it, for all the leeway given, Denon had still chosen the Naboo Republic. Realpolitik to the point of appeasement ultimately did not benefit the Alliance or its ideals.

Senator Penhaunter was also pragmatic, but keen to stress that there were limits to what the Alliance would accept from its constituent worlds. He was more direct and Mykel appreciated that.

Chantin correctly pointed out that ultimately the negotiation was between the Alliance and Ord Mantell, with the Hutts presenting themselves as a convenient third way to smooth over the wrinkles in Ord Mantell's peculiar security situation. However, Mykel's discussion with Chantin had been to prove to the Alliance that it didn't see everything in black and white, and compromises could be made. Though it took two to tango. Ord Mantell would have to give up something in return for acceptance.

Mykel turned his attention directly to the the Ord Mantell delegation. He parsed their surface thoughts, ranging from neutral to positive. A mixed bag, but one that was beginning to lean in their favor.

At the head of the delegation was Prefect Kord of the Ord Mantell's transition government council. The pale middle aged woman had a thin and sharp figure nearly the point of appearing gaunt, with high cheekbones that seemed to be cut from stone. She was dressed just as sharply, in a dark navy slim cut business suit that carried the expensive sheen of spider silk. A thin necklace of aurodium hung peaked out from her ivory band collar. Her hair was woven into an intricate braid, black hair streaked with lines of silver. Everything about her appearance was immaculate. Which was what made the jagged white line of scar tissue down the left side of her face all the more stark. Her glassy blue eyes were matching, but the technopath could sense that one was a cybernetic replacement.

No one who had dare resist Dark Empire was spared from its cruelty, not even the powerful shipping magnate.

Her expression was stoic though not severe, matching her neutral attitude. She was the shatterpoint here - the rest would fall in line with what she chose.

"Prefect Kord, what are your concerns?" Mykel asked her.

"It was never our intent to become a so called crime hub, but at the time we were desperate for a security solution. For a time, our arrangements with these paramilitary groups and...other organizations has sufficed our needs, but the generous security and economic offerings of the Galactic Alliance are certainly one to consider." Her blue eyes scanned the room, briefly pausing to lock eyes with each Alliance diplomat before continuing. "I believe that...compliance with Alliance statutes can be satisfied to the liking of your ruling bodies, though I must express that due process be respected as it pertains to our own legal system. We would be open to extradition arrangements if such respect is shown. We would also like to reserve the right to employ private security forces as we see fit, in addition to any martial support that the Alliance would provide."

Mykel perked up at that. Finally, an acceptable track. It wasn't necessarily that Ord Mantell welcomed the criminals, but they needed assurances that they could still provide for their own defense outside of the Alliance framework. That was more than workable.

"Of course, Prefect Kord. The Galactic Alliance is governed by the rule of law. Unless there was an imminent national security threat to the GA or its people, then there would be no scenario where the federal government or the New Jedi Order would just waltz onto Ord Mantell without your express permission. However, I must make it known that we do expect you to prosecute the law with sincerity and fairness. Certain obscene activities, such as slavery and trafficking will have zero tolerance. I will also note that while constituent worlds are given leeway in domestic affairs, federal laws still apply to intrasystems relations within Alliance space, which includes customs check for contraband deemed illegal by the federal government. A bill of rights is also in place to protect all sentients of the GA from violations by both the federal and local governments."

"You would be provided with a grace period to achieve compliance, and a time table for which can be developed in detail today or in future discussions. What we need now is to know if you're willing to try."

Kord leaned back in her seat, eyes closed for a moment in thought. Mykel felt the rising tension among the rest of the Ord Mantell as they awaited her decision with bated breath.

Finally, she opened her eyes and straightened up in her chair, the deliberation made.

"Such conditions would be...acceptable. We will respect your standards if we are afforded some amnesty to set our affairs in order."

She became quiet, leaving the floor for Chantin, and the rest of the Alliance diplomats to add anything.

Whottoomuzz Chantin Thexann Pehnataur Damian du Couteau

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

“Ah, informants.”
He let the word linger on his tongue like something bitter. “An elegant idea, in theory. In practice…? A whisper becomes a funeral. One snitch poisons a dozen streets.”

He offered Thexann Pehnataur a polite nod, but the edge in his smile was unmistakable. The mask that must be worn. A boast for the benefit of the Nikto's morale.

“I don’t make a habit of training Corpses. That arrangement may suit smaller outfits — but I doubt you’ll find many volunteers where it counts.”

And then the boy spoke once more. Directly to the Mantellian Delegation. Diplomatic, seeming to be what ruling body of Ord Mantell would want to settle for.

But Whottoomuzz knew a vulnerability, an opportunity when he saw one.

“Curious.”
The word slithered out smooth as oil, accompanied by the faint creak of armor as Whottoomuzz adjusted his massive frame.

“I had assumed this discussion was in the hands of the Alliances Senators and Diplomats”
His golden eyes flicked toward Mykel Dawson, unreadable but unblinking.
“Yet it seems the final terms are being offered by a Padawan.”

A pause. Calculated, quiet. The words were directed at the Alliance, but were meant for Mantellian ears – to sow doubt, leverage for a better position.

“If the Jedi Trainee now speaks for the entirety of the Alliance, let that be clear. But if not… I would prefer to hear from those elected to decide such matters. I am not here to negotiate faith. Or are the people of Ord Mantell so gullible to agree to the first offer presented without scrutiny? Surely a people as weak-willed as such would turn at the first profitable offer once a few decades of safety has made them lax. Greedy. Fat with decadence."

A bitter parallel to his own kin, Whottoomuzz thought.

The Hutt called out, allowing a tone of indignation to flavor his words. To redirect his insult at the populace towards the Alliance's delegation.
"Tay jee-jee stuka che da odda pateesa!"

Damian du Couteau Mykel Dawson Thexann Pehnataur @Open (Objective 2)​

 

[Alicio Organa]

Obredaan, Classified Location
Objective 1
- Connel Vanagor -
​

It was then that the room received a hail on their holotable, the timing a little too perfect. It was an SIA line. Top priority. Proper credentials, but no tag describing who or what might be calling. The encryption was labyrinthian. Concerning, had Officer Tora not been informed in advance of a call from an infil specialist.

//Shadow Vanagor. Omega Squad.// A dark, metallically-distorted voice would find it's way to the Jedi's ear as an... interesting sight would greet the briefing. It was a hologram of a helmet, gaunt and skeletal, with glowing eyes and twin bladed horns growing from the temples.

//I'm a consultant with Alliance Intelligence. I've been assigned to assist you and your squad.// Not entirely untrue... but a bit off from the mark. He had technically assigned himself. //You have... quite the egg to crack. I believe I can be of use to you.//

//Here are coordinates. Lip of the valley, shallow cave. Should be safe to stage from here.// Though the modulator roughened the voice, it was easy to tell the man was speaking quietly, and all too calm. And, perhaps, with a bit of humor. //Don't make me wait too long.//

The voice cut out. And Alicio waited. Surely, the delegation to Ord Mantell would be just fine without him for a day.

 

[Ran Serys]

Obj. 1 - Obredaan Fallen Industry

"Nobody yearns for the mines. Don't let them tell you any different." Ran said to her fellows over comlink as she inserted herself into a once cortosis rich fissure. With no rope, no gear, safety or otherwise, Ran relied solely on the strength of her bare hands and feet to transport her sturdy frame down the rocky crevasse. Several precarious hand and footholds later, Ran had found herself in an abandoned subterranean branch mine. Her feet planted on cold stone and the powdery remnants of the natural and brittle cortosis so common in the Obredaan mines.

Ran continued down the abandoned branch of the mine, her lightsaber lit the way. Sounds from her comlink came in garbled the further in she went. She couldn't understand what was happening, only that it wasn't good. The sound of blaster fire was the only real sound she could identify. "This is Jedi Knight Ran Serys- do you read me?" She volunteered into the communicator. "I repeat. This is Jedi Knight Ran Serys- do you read me? Confirm." She waited and then the garbled sounds turned into silence.

"Well that isn't good." Ran said to herself as she switched the communicator to short range signals. She thought maybe there was a chance she could establish a connection to one of the other units entering through the mine's abandoned branches.

"Jedi Knight Ran Serys, here. Do you read me? Come in." She barked into the communicator once again as the narrow mines opened up into a larger cavern chamber lined with oddly colored cortosis deposits that stretched out ragged and sharp from the ground and ceiling. "This is different." She examined. "But why?"

Tags: Open
​

 

[Jonyna Si]

TAG: Marlon Sularen

The SIA had been tracking him for months now. Really, they had never stopped. Ever since Byss, he had always been kept tabs on. He would dip in and out of their radar, but they'd always kept him as a high priority.

But it was always down to a jedi to deal with him. Sularen had always been one to surround himself in layers of defense. Fleets, Commandos, Droids. Anything he could do to hide behind those more competent than he was.

And even on his own, he wasn't to be underestimated.

But The Panther had a plan.

The SIA had given her coordinates to the base, and Jonyna had tracked it from afar. Seen where the transports were coming in and out. A massive gorge that hid away the lone hanger into the side of a cliff. Any sane person would attempt to infiltrate the base itself from below.

Not The Panther. Not Jonyna.

She stood atop the opposite cliff, the canyon near a hundred meters across.

And she jumped, using her own pyrokinesis to rocket herself towards the target. The hanger bay.

She reached near mach two before she impacted, cratering the floor of the hanger as she looked over to the spec dev commandos. Without a word, she charged forward with a bit of Force Speed, before impaling one with Claire by slipping it between the plates, simultaneously piercing the ysalimari cradle behind it, before holding another hand up and firing a beam of concentrated cold at an adjacent commando, having done her research since last time. The commando's armor locked up, before The Panther sent a blast of telekinetic force at him, shattering him then and there.

She held no sympathy for men like this. Anyone this close to Sularen was no innocent man, following orders. Every single man in this room was a war criminal.

But she was looking for the big fish. The grand prize. Sularen himself.

 

[Ilaria Morvayne]

Chapter Two: A Mask of Death and Shadow

---

Ran Serys

Dust lingered in the recycled air like a memory—faint, persistent, inescapable. Even behind the rebreather clasped across her mouth and nose, Ilaria could taste the metallic sting of cortosis residue. It clung to every surface like ash from a funeral pyre.

She moved with surgical precision through the narrow shaft, descending from the secondary breach point where the support beams had long since given way to decay. Her gloved hands brushed the jagged edges of a carved stone ledge as she landed lightly in a crouch, pale eyes glinting in the flickering half-light cast by the torch clipped to her belt. The sound of her boots contacting the mineral-stained stone echoed for a moment too long.

Hollow.

A fitting metaphor for the state of this world. Hollowed out. Stripped bare. Once bled for its worth by tyrants, now bled anew by rebels who fancied themselves liberators. There was no freedom in fire. Only chaos waiting to take its next shape.

Ilaria rose slowly and scanned the darkness ahead. Her lightsaber remained unlit, unnecessary in the dark for someone who had trained to see through more than light. She had studied the mine layouts before departure, of course—every level, every cross-hatch, every ventilation shaft. Predicting the erratic behavior of insurgents came naturally when one understood their psychology: passionate, volatile, short-sighted.

Her lip curled ever so slightly at a thought.

A soft chime in her ear alerted her to the faintest trace of another signal. Short-range, erratic, partially encrypted. A Jedi signature code, mid-range clearance. Female. She didn't need to confirm the ID.

"Jedi Knight Ran Serys, here. Do you read me? Come in."

The voice cracked in static, just audible enough for recognition. Ilaria did not respond.

Not yet.

Instead, she took a long moment to adjust her gloves, flicking a stray thread from the stitching as though it personally offended her. Then she continued, methodically, through the deeper veins of the mine, her movements graceful yet devoid of urgency. Every step was calculated—footfall placed where no sound would betray her presence, shoulders held straight even as the walls narrowed.

She knew who Ran Serys was. Of course she did.

She came upon a split in the passage and paused, eyes flicking toward the faint energy signature left lingering in the walls—residual heat from a lightsaber, most likely Ran's.

Ilaria chose the opposite tunnel.

A short detour, yes, but preferable. She had no interest in stumbling directly into Ran's path unless absolutely necessary. There was no strategic benefit to immediate reunion. Let the Knight fumble about in isolation, waving her saber like a torch and shouting into the void. Ilaria preferred to arrive when it mattered. If it mattered.

As she walked, she reflected—not emotionally, but analytically.

Ran's presence here was unfortunate.

Obredaan was important, not because of what it was, but because of what it represented: a lever. One could force an entire region of space to shift alignment with the right resources. Cortosis was not merely a mineral; it was bargaining power. Whoever controlled the mines could dictate policy. Influence shipyards. Determine who lived, and who died, in conflicts yet to be born.

And the Jedi had been sent.

Ilaria exhaled through her nose. The noise barely disturbed the air.

She entered a wide chamber, untouched by recent movement. Here, the cortosis formations jutted from the floor like petrified spears, catching the dim light in strange refractions. The color was… off. Pale, yes, but with a faint violet sheen. An impurity, likely. Something the Dark Empire had ignored. Something the rebels wouldn't understand.

They don't see the layers, she thought. They dig for ore and miss the pattern beneath.

Her hand hovered over the surface of one formation. Cold. Dense. Resonant.

There was something beneath this world's crust that whispered of deeper wounds. Not merely exploitation, but desecration. The Dark Empire had mined the body. But someone—something—had touched the soul of this place.

And it remembered.

Ilaria turned from the deposit and activated her communicator—not to respond to Ran's broadcast, but to scan for interference patterns. A low-frequency pulse, artificial in origin, was pinging intermittently through the cavern system. Not rebel. Not Imperial. Something older. She marked the frequency and began moving again, filing the data for analysis later.

She did not believe in omens.

But she believed in leverage.

Her pace quickened now, as much as her carefully disciplined stride would allow. She allowed herself a slight flicker of anticipation—professional, impersonal, like the cold edge of a scalpel. There were answers in these mines. Not just about the future, but about the past. And perhaps, if she was exceptionally fortunate, there might be opportunity.

The signal pulsed again. Stronger.

And with it, she felt something else—something that brushed against the edge of her senses like the breath of a memory long buried. A familiar presence. Dim, faded, but there. She did not pause, but her fingers briefly curled.

She would find it.

She always did.

The communicator chirped again—now an actual message, rerouted through the emergency relay. It was Ran.

"Jedi Knight Ran Serys, requesting confirmation. Is anyone receiving this?"

Ilaria exhaled.

Then, finally, she pressed the transmit key.

"This is Padawan Morvayne," she replied, her voice smooth, clipped, precise. "Your position is acknowledged. Advise you maintain current location. I will reach you shortly."

It was time to say hello.

 

[Tyron Khan]

OBJECTIVE I - OBREDAAN: FALLEN EMPIRE

The Besalisk continued to wait for a further response over the comms from Ysennia Lee in regard to further assisting the Rebel forces that had been enduring the Imperial's onslaught within the mines. For the time being he went to meet with Jedi Knight Aadihr Lidos to provide him with the extra antiox rebreather mask he managed to get. Tossed it over to the Jedi Knight and remained patient in what to do next.

"Master Lidos. Brought you this. Vulpesen said we should take precautions out here. I've sent a comm transmission over to Lieutenant Colonel Lee. Said the morale and shape of the Rebels isn't good."

Tyron had made it to be within a good proximity range with Aadihr Lidos while he communicated with the blind Jedi Knight. After a stray blaster bolt had been fired and redirected into a wall causing no impact. The Padawan Learner paused in advancing further hearing another comm call transmission coming through.

[Padawan Learner Tyron here. Checking in. Is everything alright Master Serys? I'm with Master Lidos currently.]

After hearing fellow Padawan Learner Ilaria Morvayne also responded to Ran Serys that brought some reassurance over his mind. However, he remains on stand-by in case any other New Jedi Order members needed any support to defuse the Imperial threats on Obredaan in the mines.

Outfit: Clothes
Weapons: Double-Bladed Lightsabers
Saber Hilts: Guardian Hilt | Vanquisher Hilt
Master: Kaeleon Seleare | Kei Raxis
TAGS: Aadihr Lidos | Ysennia Lee | Vulpesen | Ran Serys | Ilaria Morvayne

 

[Thexann Pehnataur]

Objective Two: Ord Mantell, New Beacon of Diplomacy, or Hive of Scum and Villainy? (Senators)

Thexann leaned forward, steepling his fingers before him on the table of cold ferroglass. His voice, when it came, was calm. Too calm. You speak much of rot, Whottoomuzz. Of weakness. Of indulgence. Curious, from one whose people have a reputation for, and history of fattening his purse on the backs of those he deems beneath him.
His eyes—hard as obsidian under Ord Mantell’s ceremonial gold band—locked onto the Nikto’s.
You mistake diplomacy for submission. That is your first error. Your second is assuming the Alliance would place terms in the hands of a Padawan without cause. Young Dawson spoke not as a decision-maker, but as a reminder.
A pause.
That even our students understand the stakes. That even the unblooded among us see through games dressed in armor and bluster.
He stood, slow and deliberate, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the table. When he spoke again, it was not just to Whottoomuzz—but to the entire chamber. I could be wrong, but this delegation of Ord Mantell has no interest in becoming another pawn on your gameboard, and we will not trade one boot on their neck for another in a new hue of tyranny. They may not want my offer, but it is the only one I will make.
Then he looked to the gathered delegations—Confederate, Alliance, neutral.
They are Mantellian. They have survived the fractures of war and the forgetfulness of peace. So, let them decide their fate with clarity—not out of fear, nor flattery, nor the desperation of those who only know how to conquer.”
Then back to the Nikto, but more for the ears of the armored Hutt.
... and if you think throwing around veiled insults, such as “weak” will change the course… A flicker of a smile touched his lips, cold and razor-thin. ...then perhaps the stench of dead empires has made you forget what resistance smells like.




​

​

 

[Connel Vanagor]

TO THE MINES
Obredaan
Mines

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Seraphim
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]


Objective One: Obredaan, Fallen Industry (Jedi/GADF)

The command tent on Obredaan, moments after the debrief revealing Mine 77-Theta as the true target. The tension is already thick. Then— A deep, low-pitched chime breaks through the holotable interface. Static ripples across the hologrid before resolving into a singular image:
A helmet. Gaunt. Skeletal. With glowing eyes and curved, horn-like protrusions. A voice follows. Distorted. Metallic. Controlled.

//Shadow Vanagor. Omega Squad.//

Everyone freezes. Hands hover near weapons. Gabriel instinctively palms his decrypt spike.

Michael in a sharp, controlled tone…That line’s coded for top-tier SIA. No tag. No trace. No face. Just horns.
Gabriel, half-humored, but not looking away from the hologram. Encrypted like a krayt dragon’s stomach acid… but it tracks. If this is fake, someone got real creative.
Sariel deadpan looking straight at Tora. …and if it’s real, someone’s about to ruin our whole week… so who is it? Tora just shrugged, but he continued to stare at her, certain she was lying. Sariel's gaze didn't waver. You know something, Tora. Spill it. Tora's shrug deepened, her eyes darting briefly to the side. The room's tension thickened, each second dragging like hours. Gabriel's grip on the decrypt spike tightened, his patience thinning… only Jeremiel standing between them seemed to calm things down.
That voice… he sounds like a funeral invitation.
Azrael just smirked, he didn’t care either way.Hope he brought his own shovel.
Raphael in a hushed tone to Michael. We staging with him or spacing him?
Connel didn’t move until the message ended. He watched. Listened. Took in the helmet. The tone. The confidence behind the distortion. He didn’t need to know the voice to recognize intention.
He stepped forward, toggling the holotable to freeze the image at the moment the horns glint.
Turning to face the room. He’s not bluffing. That wasn’t a pitch. That was a test. Back at the image, and then to Torah. ... and we’re not the only ones watching Theta. He knew when to call. Knew what to say. And knew I’d listen.
He then glanced to Michael. Not trying to overstep here, or pull rank, but… we check the coordinates. Quiet. No full team until I say.
Officer Tora was a bit tight-lipped, still unsettled by everything. “That level of encryption shouldn’t exist outside deep Shadow Corps black cells… and they report to me.” Pounding the table. “Whoever this is, they’re playing beyond the table.”

Then we sit down and play smarter. He looked back to the still image. Besides… he called me Shadow Vanagor. That’s not a name you drop unless you’ve read files buried under three Jedi clearance seals.
Michael in a dry tone, with half a smirk.
Guess we’re going to meet the consultant. Hope he doesn’t bite.

Or hope he does. Might make this less boring.
Connel turned, putting on his mask and stepping toward the exit of the tent. He wants us at the lip of the valley. Staging cave. Close enough to see the mine. Far enough for him to talk first. Checking and then holstering his Lightblaster. Let’s see if our shadow found something we missed.
Michael paused, just outside of the tent and glanced at Azrael. And bring charges. Just in case we don’t like what he found.
Omega Squad moved single file, boots crunching on broken ore. No banter. No chatter. Just the tight rhythm of elite soldiers entering a zone that smells like an ambush.
Sariel moved ahead, sniper-scouting from the rocks.


Gabriel monitored the encrypted beacon—still active. No voice. Just the ping.


Raphael and Azrael form rear guard, weapons ready but low.


Michael stayed central, eyes never stopping.


Jeremiel glanced at the cave entrance ahead, then up toward the cliffs, then spoke quietly
Feels like we’re walking into a grave that doesn’t know it’s full yet.
Connel spoke for the first time in ten minutes. If this is a trap, it’s too patient. Cracking his neck as if prepping for a fight. Which means it’s real.

They reached it—a mouth in the cliffside, just deep enough to hide six men and a secret. Burn marks at the rim—old LAAT landing scorch, weeks old at most.
Sariel raised a hand. Thermals… one heat signature. No movement. Sitting. Waiting.
Gabriel wondered while scanning the area… Encryption is still local. Broadcasts only when pinged. Dead silent otherwise. Whoever this is… they know how to hide.
They also know how to bait.
They stack at the edge. No one speaks.
Azrael planted a charge behind them—small, directional, fallback security.
Raphael readied his cannon. Jer tightened his gloves. Sariel watched the horizon.
Michael gave the signal.
Connel walked in first.
The cave interior hummed with low echo. The walls are flecked with ore. Burn marks. Someone’s made camp here before. But it’s too clean to be random.
At the far end of the shallow cave sits a single figure. Shadowed. Still. Waiting.
Not armed. Not moving. Not hiding.
A small portable relay unit rested beside them, blinking with passive encryption cycles—just like the one that sent the message.
Omega Squad fanned out around the edges. No one draws—but no one relaxes.
Connel stepped forward. One pace. Two. Just close enough.
... well?

Alicio Organa • OPEN​

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

"Hmph."
A single grunt. Deep. Unamused.

"For what it’s worth, Senator… you’re not wrong. The Hutts do fatten themselves. They always have. And when a people grow too bloated on their own greed—what follows is rot."

"You call it rot. I do too. None that still live were around to build the system. We inherited it—like a disease passed from elder to spawn. Varl made my kind what we are. We were gifted with the discovery of Nal Hutta. The galaxy shaped us, then learned to hate us for surviving it better than most."

"You see a Hutt in armor and assume indulgence, cruelty, appetite. A correct assumption. I ask you—where in this galaxy does power come cleanly? Which of your fine sectors wasn’t built on someone else’s bones?"

He did not flinch. He did not blink.
But the silence after was too honest for a simple criminal.

"I speak of these things not as a stranger, but as a son of the same sickness. I was born to it, I wear its sigils. I carry its stench. Spare me your lesson on what we both already hate."

A heavy breath escaped from his nose. Just the sound of something vast, breathing in a room too small to hold it.

"But I did not come here to confess. I came to see how your Alliance truly handles the integration of the masses. To witness firsthand where between propaganda ends and policy begins. To hear whether it can stomach hearing perspectives from mouths it detests."

He gestured loosely—toward the floor, the walls, the senators unspoken.

"I will not pretend I am owed anything here. Not trust, nor time. Your people made this mess. Not the alliance. You. Humans. Human-likes. Humanoids. First to be rescued. Last to be persecuted. If you think these issues end with me gone, then you’re not ready to lead Ord Mantell out of it."

The golden gaze narrowed beneath the armor.

"So go on. Debate something. Condemn. Ratify. Decree."

He leaned forward ever so slightly, voice quiet and deliberate now.

"Silence suits the Rot just fine."

He leaned back. The phrik gauntlet resting across his armored chest curled once—then stilled.

Thexann Pehnataur | Mykel Dawson | Damian du Couteau | @Open or Exit​

 

[Ran Serys]

The cortosis veins were either sick or impure according to Ran's best guess. To be sure would require more study, but Ran felt comfortable operating off of the guess albeit temporarily. She broke off and stowed a sharp end of a one cortosis cluster to analyze. If there were something wrong with the cortosis, a sickness, it would've explained why the branch mine had been abandoned and mostly closed off from the others. What would happen if she opened the abandoned mine back up? The question flashed in her mind but only for a moment. The Dark Empire had their reasons for closing it, and she could understand that, but she wondered if the rebels would. Evidence and data would be needed regardless of what group took the mines, whether the Galactic Alliance or the Rebels of Obredaan.

Ran continued her mission. While the others aided the Rebels in taking the mines from the Dark Imperial Remnant, Ran had been on a fact finding mission to make the transition from the hands of the Alliance's enemies as smooth as possible. Ran was looking for everything from the mine's potential dangers to the secrets the Dark Empire kept on Obredaan. Her instincts told her the discolored Cortosis would lead her to both. So in the larger cavern chamber she remained, preternaturally aware of the secrets yet to be uncovered. She walked beside abandoned machines, and tools scattered among the discolored and protruding cortosis clusters. At the center of the chamber a giant hole had been drilled and dug out off the ground. While Ran couldn't see its bottom when she leaned over the hole, she could smell the strong scent of ash and soot. As her communicator chimed she took a step away from it.

On the other side of the transmission was a young woman's voice. To Ran, the voice seemed to carry a starkness. She didn't mind stark. It wasn't so long ago that the word could've been used to describe her.

"Finally, Morvayne! I was waiting for someone to respond to my calls. I was beginning to think my communicator was busted!" Ran admitted. "But now that I know its working, that'll be a negative. A negative on joining me unless your branch mine's cortosis seems to have been compromised as well?" The Knight asked wondering what the young woman had found on her end.

"This mine business may prove to be a more delicate situation than anticipated. One that we should question potentially compromising with our actions."

Another chime of Ran's communicator revealed the voice of Padawan Tyron.

"As far as I know, Tyron." She replied hearing the blaster bolts on his end. "But that can change and I'll ring you when it does." Ran promised as her gaze hovered over the hole that smelled of ash and soot.

Tags: Ilaria Morvayne Tyron Khan
​

 

[Alicio Organa]

Obredaan, Classified Location
Objective 1
- Connel Vanagor -
​

The taste of anxiety was high in the air.

No, that wasn't quite it, he decided. They were tense. Prepared to spring at the drop of a hat. It was abrasive, like sandpaper against his tongue. But they weren't scared. Just cautious.

Good. They should stay on their toes. The road ahead wouldn't be easy.

...well?

The figure wasn't any less unsettling in person. The helm glinted like silver in what little light reached it, pale blue eyes glowing from the inky blackness within, bladed ears extending his height considerably. Sections of plated armor sparsely littered his form. He drew his cloak, multiple layers of colorful material that somehow, miraculously, didn't catch the eye, around his shoulders, obscuring everything but his masque as Connel approached.

His equipment radiated with the Force. It swirled around him curiously, light and airy like a sea breeze. Easy enough for a Jedi Shadow to notice. Alicio wasn't exactly trying to hide his signature from the man.

//Omega Squad. Shadow.// The voice growled, no matter how softly it's wielder's voice. //Welcome to Mine 77-Theta.//

The figure decided to go the professional route for now. He was curious at just how the next minutes would go. //You can see the entrance if you crest the ridge. The Empire took great caution to make it appear abandoned. But the entrance is rigged with pressure mines, and they're dug in just past. Embrasures in the walls. Two E-Webs. Ion showers. They're certainly expecting well-kitted combatants to come busting through. Wonder why.// Again, despite their wariness, he let his words sharpen with humor.

//Other entrances have been sealed, but I've found another way in, if you're interested.// Walking with all the confidence of someone who knew he wasn't about to get shot by his own people, the horned man stepped past Connel, and around the soldiers, expecting them to follow him back to the surface. //Miners need to breathe somehow. There are a series of ventilation shafts hidden in the surrounding area, disguised to look like rock spires. And thankfully, they were built wide so they wouldn't get choked by cortosis dust build-up. Ergo, large enough for us to go down.//

He paused, gauging their reaction. //Thoughts?//

 

[Mykel Dawson]

“I had assumed this discussion was in the hands of the Alliances Senators and Diplomats”
His golden eyes flicked toward Mykel Dawson, unreadable but unblinking.
“Yet it seems the final terms are being offered by a Padawan.”

When Chantin thought he had the upper hand, he was only more than happy to entertain Mykel, but now that he was on the backfoot, he attacked the legitimacy of the Jedi. That wasn't surprising, as Mykel currently stood as the strongest opponent to any designs the Hutt had upon the system.

Kaldor finally rose, the Jedi Knight giving his apprentice a pat on the shoulder.

"You have done well," he whispered. "I will continue."

The senior Consular looked over to the Hutt boss. "If you cared to look upon today's itinerary, then you would see that the Jedi are representing the Foreign Office and the Ministry of Justice as their envoys among the Alliance delegation. This is standard procedure enshrined in law, and nothing my apprentice has relayed today is in conflict with the Alliance statutes or the policy directives set forth by the executive branch. I would also mention that not all Senators on the federal level are elected by popular vote, but more often appointed by the governments of the worlds they represent." He looked over to Kord, "The beauty of the Alliance is that we afford such flexibility."

"However...you did bring up an excellent point. If negotiations are ultimately between the Galactic Alliance and Ord Mantell, and the Chantin Kajidic has refused assimilation, then what purpose do you currently serve in these bilateral discussions aside from obstruction? Prefect Kord has accepted that the Galactic Alliance will not condone lawlessness within its territory. Crime, while unfortunate, is inevitable. However, organized crime is not something that must be tolerated for the sake of the integrity of a nation. Sometimes, we must crack a few eggs to make an omelet. My deepest apologies if this upsets the sex traffickers and drug peddlers."

He turned the discussion back to Kord, allowing Chantin to continue to fume. His off-color diatribe against humans definitely didn't earn him any points with the very human Prefect Kord, further souring his chances for influence, but at this point the Hutt boss didn't seem to care.

"Unless the present members of the Senate are in disagreement, then today we have agreed upon developing a timetable where Ord Mantell will gradually achieve compliance with Alliance standards. Upon completion of these milestones, then they may be fully integrated into the Galactic Alliance. Upon full integration Ord Mantell will still be allowed to maintain its own standing army and the ability to procure private security forces for its domestic defense, provided that said forces operate within the bounds of the Alliance laws of armed of conflict."

Kaldor finished, allowing the other members of the Alliance delegation to add their inputs.

Meanwhile, Mykel continued to study Chantin. He hadn't been aware of the Hutts' influence all the way in the northern Mid Rim, but a full investigation was perhaps an order. They couldn't be allowed to spread here while the Black Sun continued to spread in free space to the south of the Alliance frontier. Chantin thought he could slink back into the shadows, but now he may find the Jedi waiting for him this time around.

Whottoomuzz Chantin Thexann Pehnataur Damian du Couteau

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

No sooner did she toss the grenade, did the droid reach for his rifle. Cora drew her lightsaber, blue blade flaring into existence and ready to effortlessly block bolts of plasma.

No bolts were to come. Instead, a wave of concussive force rippled through the room and struck her in the chest. Cora was thrown backwards, her organic, bruise-able body crashing into an exhaust pipe affixed to the wall.

The droid's garbled, staticky taunt didn't register as anything other than an indication that the grenade had detonated properly. Somehow, it still wasn't pleasing to hear.

Cora groaned, picking herself up from the floor. Her haplessly flung form had created a dent in the pipe. Little cracks were enough for steam to begin escaping through, bathing the bunker in fog that surely wouldn't be an issue for the droid.

The rifle's concussive blast would be answered. The Force pulsed outward toward the droid, and through the fog - or advanced photoreceptors - he would an arc of bright blue plasma coming down upon him.

Antipater

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Combat Jumpsuit
Weapons: Lightsabers

The mines weren't just quiet. They were dead. No clank of tools. No hum of conveyor lines. Just the soft echo of boots on dust and the occasional groan of old metal straining in the distance. Valery moved carefully, each step deliberate. Her lightsaber remained unlit at her hip, though her hand hovered near it out of habit.

Behind her, larger boots followed.

"Stay close," she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at her son trailing a half step behind.

"This place feels…" She frowned, nose wrinkling. "Wrong." She stopped at a support beam bent halfway into a useless arc and reached out, brushing her fingertips along the cold metal. Cortosis veins still ran thick beneath the surface here. That was why the Imperials had dug so deep — and why they hadn't let go.

They never did. Not really.

"It's not just what they took," she said quietly. "It's what they left behind. Fear. Exploitation. That sticks to the walls long after the miners are gone." Together, they walked deeper, into the heart of the mine where the rebels had warned them enemy armor still held position. Valery could feel the tension in the Force tightening with every step — like a drawn breath, waiting for something to snap.

"They'll know we're here soon," she said. Her voice wasn't cold — just sure.

She paused, turning to face Aris fully now.

"You ready?"

Aris Noble ​